


Five Times Quicksilver Doesn’t Tell Magneto He’s His Son and the One Time He Does

by evilauthoroverlords



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Post-X-Men: Apocalypse (2016), dadneto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 08:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19247407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilauthoroverlords/pseuds/evilauthoroverlords
Summary: It's not like Peter doesn't want Erik to know that he's his father. He wants to tell him, really....Next time.





	1. This is the dollar store, how good can it be

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the Fat, from the Box and the Dumb. Happy belated birthday. It's been fun watching the X-Men movies together, bub.

**One**

“No.”

Kurt shakes his head, black fringe falling into his eyes. He shifts his weight back and forth and glances through the window to where the cashier sits inside, painting her nails and chewing gum with her mouth open. Peter can almost hear the smacking from here, even over the buzz of the outdoor lights and neon gas price signs.

She hasn't noticed them yet, but if Kurt keeps it up, he'll be buying them one-way tickets to suspicious town.

“Stop doing the pee-pee dance. You’ll draw attention." Peter tries to sound sincere over the impatience he can feel bubbling up inside him. Or maybe that’s Mountain Dew. He leans back and lets it go as a burp.

He flexes his nose to get rid of the tingles. Definitely Mountain Dew.

Kurt makes a face but doesn’t comment. “I’m not doing the pee-pee dance. And I always draw attention,” he says, motioning to himself with his blue claws. His tail whips forth and bumps against the glass.

Peter's eyes widen. “Well, try to draw less of it!”

The cashier is watching them now, leaning to peer past the ads on the window, though only in an intrigued way. She locks eyes with Peter and he gives her a smile and wave. She’s wearing a plaid blazer with those big shoulders. Must be Cindy, though she changed her hair color again.

She lifts her hand to return the wave, and it collides with the nail polish bottle. Peter flinches and would have darted in to catch it, if not for his crutches. The red polish dribbles out.

At least the counter is already red.

Peter fixes his crutches beneath his armpits and tilts his head to the side. "Go now, while she’s distracted."

“I’m not scared that I’ll get caught. I’m worried about, you know, Proverbs 15:3—He is watching whether we do good or evil.”

Another bubble of impatience, and it definitely isn’t Mountain Dew this time. “Look, I’m almost certain the Lord doesn’t care about one little pack of Skittles. But this guy–” Peter hunches over his crutch to put a thumb to his chest, hoping it looks more emphatic than pathetic “– _does_ , and he didn’t bring any money, so if you could just _poof_ , then…”

“I brought money.” Kurt’s claw reaches toward his back pocket.

Peter has Kurt’s wrist in his hand before either of them have time to blink. The corner of Peter’s mouth lifts. At least his reflexes aren’t broken. “I don’t want to owe you.”

Kurt pulls his wrist free. “Peter, it would be much kinder to me if you’d let me pay for them. I would happily give them to you as a gift.”

Peter ignores him. Inside, Cindy goes to the back to get more paper towels. “This is a good chance, Kurt.” Peter imagines he’s pushing him toward the Skittles with his words. “Maybe your last chance.”

Kurt’s tail whips to and fro and his toes curl up like big, blue caterpillars. Then, he goes almost scarily still, and his mouth widens into his toothful smile.

_He has an idea_ , realizes Peter. He returns the smile, though the longer he looks at Kurt, the less certain he is that he’s going to be on board with it.

"I will steal the Skittles–”

_So far, so good_.

“–if you tell Magneto you’re his son.”

Peter stares at Kurt, his mouth falling slack. “I never should have told you about that, should I?”

“Is that a no?”

Peter sticks his hands in his silver jacket pockets. “Remind me how that would be a fair trade for either of us?”

Kurt shrugs. “That girl will be back any second. Better choose.”

Peter maintains a poker face, but his palms start to sweat inside his pockets and he clenches his fists. God, this thing is as clammy as wearing duct tape. But damn him if it didn’t make him look-

He forces his train of thought back on track. Kurt’s yellow eyes bore into him, and he can almost feel the Catholic guilt transferring between them.

_How much do I want these Skittles?_ Peter asks himself.

_How much do you want to tell Magneto?_ asks an uncalled-for thought. _Shut up_ , he tells it, but he can't shake it.

Peter drops his head in defeat, but he doesn't unclench his fists. “Go ahead."

There’s a black and blue cloud, then Kurt is back in the middle of it long enough to hand Peter the Skittles and let him grab hold of his arm.

They appear in what Peter assumes is the mansion, based on the wood paneling. It takes him a few blinks to adjust to the dim lighting and to see Magneto sitting up in bed across the room.

“His _bedroom?_ ” Peter hisses, constricting his grip on Kurt’s arm.

“Autsch!” Kurt yanks his wrist free for the second time that night. If he’d been more cooperative he might have avoided Peter’s fingernails entirely.

“Sorry, Magneto, uh, Mr. Lehnsherr…” says Peter, half-bowing, half painfully digging his crutches into his armpits. It dawns on him that if Magneto had stuck around, his last name might have been Lehnsherr.

_Peter Lehnsherr. Huh._

Kurt bursts into blue and black shadow, leaving Peter alone in the room with Magneto.

“Hey, they have doors here, you know,” calls Peter to the cloud, then winces at how loud his voice sounds.

Magneto barely reacts from where he sits. The lamp next to him silhouettes his stubble, and Peter remembers how his mom had been the one to teach him to shave. He had actually used women’s razors and shaving cream for years without knowing any better. He doubts Magneto would have been much of a better teacher, though, with how unruly that stubble is getting. Although, it’s kind of—

Magneto clears his throat, and Peter swears he could have had a heart attack right then and there. He cringes when he realizes he’d been grinning to himself like an idiot.

_This is definitely not the right time._

Peter hobbles quickly to the door. “Sorry about Kurt again, he must have overshot or something,” he says, trying to fill the silence as he fumbles with the doorknob, struggling not to drop his crutches. “Skittle?” he offers Magneto.

Magneto shakes his head.

A nervous chuckle escapes Peter’s lips that continues until the door closes behind him. He then squeezes his eyes shut and leans his forehead against the wood, letting his goggles dig into his scalp. _Real nice save there, champ._

Two bulky fingers slide the pack of Skittles out of his hand.

“Hey,” Peter protests, straightening up to follow them with his eyes.

“I’m going to go pay for these,” says Kurt matter-of-factly.

Peter fixes him with a cold look until he teleports away.


	2. What would you do if there was a child right in front of you

**Two**

The thing about having a paranoid criminal for a father who doesn't know he's your father is that there aren't a whole lot of _heads ups_ before you inevitably end up crashing into him in the hallway.

Charles tries his best, to his credit. He would often slip an "I can do that after my chess game with Erik tomorrow" or a "once I get a spare room for Erik cleaned out" into the conversation when Peter would enter the room so he could keep his guard up for the next few days. It’s one step short of pulling Peter aside and saying _hey, I used my mind-reading powers to find out your biggest secret_ , but the subtle warnings are nice and Charles isn't a snitch, so Peter doesn't really mind.

Peter almost wonders if Charles hadn’t warned him this time on purpose.

It's Erik's fault, really. Peter's always careful to watch out for people when running in the halls because getting him to agree to not run in the halls at all is an endeavor Charles had quickly found pointless. The chair moving by itself across the floor definitely isn't a person, and it doesn't even register to Peter that it's _moving_ until his foot catches around the leg and he trips into the seat.

He lets out a very undignified yelp as he struggles to regain his balance on the moving chair. Just as he secures himself by digging his fingernails into the cushion, he finds himself looking up at the back of none other than Magneto himself.

He can only sit and stare as Magneto whips around and looks down at him, stopping short from sitting down in the chair he most certainly used his magic magnet powers to bring to himself. His eyebrows shoot up as he takes in the sight of Peter before him, his expression shifting from startled to more than slightly judgmental in a heartbeat. Peter's silver hair is dangling in front of his goggles and his legs are partly raised in the air, a picture of beauty and grace.

And Peter should definitely get into the habit of thinking before he speaks because his mind goes blank and it just… slips… out-

"Hey, dad."

_Oh shit_.

Peter tries to conceal his heart attack as Magneto's eyebrows somehow go even higher.

"What?"

_Fast brain, fast brain, don't be slow now-_ "Godammit," Peter groans, smacking his palm against his forehead and running it down his face. "I called Raven 'mom' yesterday, too. Charles'll be _grandpa_ tomorrow, just you wait."

And _thank God_ because the corner of Magneto's mouth twitches upward after a moment, allowing Peter to breathe a silent sigh of relief. The man steps to the side, giving Peter room to place his feet on the floor. "The baldness doesn't help, does it?" he says, a humorous light in his eye that lets Peter know he's in the clear.

"He looks like Mr. Clean," Peter says with a huff. His pounding heart is beginning to slow and he's pretty sure his stumble isn't the main reason behind it.

Magneto grabs a chair adjacent to Peter's and sits down at the table, reaching for a glass of water and a plate with a sandwich on it that Peter hadn't noticed. And of course he has to levitate the chair across the room for him to sit in instead of simply sitting in the closer seat in the first place.

Peter realizes he had accidentally voiced this thought a second later when Magneto replies with a shrug. "That's where I usually sit," he explains with a nod to Peter's chair.

Peter sniffs. "You have a _spot?_ "

"Not at the moment," Magneto says, shooting Peter a pointed look. "Have you never been told to watch where you're going?"

"I watch for _people._ Furniture tends to be stationary."

Magneto considers this then dips his head, conceding to Peter's point. He grabs the glass and takes a long sip of water, and this is probably Peter's cue to leave, but he just numbly sits and watches as the water disappears down his throat. He looks to Peter, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

"Where were you off to in such a hurry?" he asks, which is probably Magneto for _why are you still here?_

Peter shrugs helplessly. "I- Just _off_ I guess, I dunno." It comes out more mumbly than he would've liked it to.

To his surprise, Magneto nods. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to use your powers. It's not just a _tool;_ it's _yours_. You can use it however and whenever you want."

That's definitely not something Charles would preach, he knows, but Peter can't help but nod along at the conviction in Magneto's words and the intensity of his gaze. His eyes are a light mixture of green and blue and gray, nearly uniform in color and glinting like steel. Not like Peter's. Peter's are a dark brown that almost appear black when away from direct light. They don't match his mom's either, a warm swirl of green and chocolate that seem like a different ratio every time he notices them. His mom's parents eyes had been shades of hazel too. Maybe he’d gotten his dark eyes from Magneto's side. Could his grandparents have had eyes like his?

Maybe Peter would've gotten Magneto’s hair if it hadn't been for his mutation turning it silver. It’s an auburn speckled with gray at the temples, a color that Peter had wished he had at one point when his mutation first manifested. Maybe if they had the same hair color, Magneto would know, and Peter wouldn't have to keep picking at the _I tell him, I tell him not_ petals.

Regardless, Magneto knows _something's_ up by how long Peter's been staring. He rests his elbows on the table and leans forward, narrowing those steely eyes. "Are you all right?"

Peter blinks and nods stiffly. "Oh, I'm grand."

Magneto lowers his chin and gives him a doubtful look. He opens his mouth to comment, but Peter speeds out of the room before he can let anything else slip.


	3. Can I get a waffle? Can I please get a waffle?

**Three**

“I hope you don’t mind me bringing you out here on a Saturday night. I know this probably isn’t your idea of fun.” Charles shifts the upper half of his body, leaning his elbow on one of his wheelchair’s armrests.

Peter glances up from rifling through the dessert menu and shrugs. “I don’t mind. Breakfast food was a good idea. I think it was always meant to be eaten at 7:00 at night.”

Make that 7:30. The waiter is taking forever to return with their order. Peter’s foot taps rapidly against the syrup-sticky carpet.

“I’m glad you agree,” says Charles. “I’ve been planning to meet individually with the members of the team for a while now. Plus, it’s nice to get out of the mansion for something other than a national crisis.”

“Mm-hmm." Peter finishes reading the menu for the hundredth time and decides he's memorized their pie selection by now. He takes another sip of his third refill of Coke and tries to think of something mature and insightful to say.

Before he can think of anything, though, Charles says, “Ah, here we are,” addressing something over Peter’s shoulder. Peter whips around, hoping to see an aproned man with a tray carrying a four-stack of pancakes (hold the butter) with hash browns and eggs over-easy.

Instead, Erik “Magneto” Lehnsherr, the homo superior himself, takes a seat at the end of the table and picks up a menu from the center. “Sorry I’m late, Charles. Inane taxi driver. Hi, Peter.”

“Hi.” Peter gives Charles the stink-eye and wonders if his foot has made a hole in the carpet yet.

The waiter arrives with Charles’ crêpes (which Peter remembers he’d pronounced the asshole way), but none of Peter’s order. The man apologizes, giving some lame excuse about a broken griddle. Peter starts to tune him out as the waiter turns his attention to Magneto- that is, until he hears what Magneto is ordering.

“Besides the Coke, I’ll have the four-stack of pancakes, no butter on those, and potatoes.”

_Huh._

“Breakfast potatoes or hash browns?” asks the waiter.

Peter’s heart starts to race. No way he’d say hash browns. No way.

“Hash browns.”

_No way._

“All right, how would you like the eggs?”

Peter’s eyes flick to Magneto’s lips, and as he watches them sound out “over-easy,” his eyebrows raise higher and higher. _No freaking way_.

Magneto returns the menu to the center stand, then seems to realize Peter’s staring at him. “What?”

“It’s just… that was my exact order.”

Charles chuckles. “Interesting. You know, they say that food preference might be genetic," he says, his stupid goddamn British accent making Peter grit his teeth.

Peter’s leans forward onto the table. “Is that so?”

“Of course you’d know that, Charles,” says Magneto.

“I must get it from my mom, then,” Peter says with a squint at the professor. “She loves pancakes.”

“What was your mom’s name, again?” Charles asks, leaning in a bit also.

Peter glances over at Magneto. He’d have to give a fake. A full name might trigger something in his memory. “Uh, Fran.” _Fran? What kind of a name is_ Fran?

Charles shakes his head and is about to comment further when a ringer sounds from his pocket. He backs his wheelchair from the table and opens his brick phone, putting it to his ear. He covers the microphone long enough to say, “It’s Hank. I’m sorry, I have to leave.”

Peter takes the opportunity to appear by Charles’ side. “Will you need my help?”

Charles waves at him dismissively as he speaks to Hank, shaking his head. Peter takes a moment to actively despise the twinkle in the professor’s eye, then is back in his seat, the salt and pepper shakers rattling from his draft.

Magneto is unphased by Peter’s dashing about and straightens the stainless steel shakers without touching them. “So, Fran Maximoff, what’s she like?”

Peter nods and rests his elbows on the table. “Oh, she’s great. What about your mom?”

Magneto falls silent, and he searches Peter’s face, whose eyes are growing wide. _Crap, what did I say—Oh. Oh, no._ His eyes land on the tattoo on Magneto’s wrist.

“Oh my God,” is the only thing he can think to say, and Magneto seems to soften a bit at this. “I didn’t think… I just kind of... ” Peter makes a motion of something falling out of his mouth.

“It’s all right,” Magneto says. “At first I thought you were… well, trying to get a rise out of me.”

Peter smiles hesitantly. “Uh, trust me, I know better than to try that. I may be dumb, but I’m not _that_ dumb.”

Magneto smiles and shakes his head. “She was amazing, by the way.”

“Hm?” Peter says as he swallows a big sip of Coke.

“My mother. Brave. Faithful. What you’d expect, I guess.”

“Oh, well,” Peter shrugs, pushing his glass away, “it’s still good to hear.” _Better than you know._

The waiter returns with their identical orders, and they begin to eat in silence, both instinctively starting with the eggs. Normally, Peter might eat it all in a few seconds, but that seems entirely disrespectful at the moment.

After a minute of clinking silverware and chewing, Erik thoughtfully sets down his fork and says, “The first time I saw my mother after we were separated at the camp also happened to be the last time I would ever see her. When she entered that doorway,” he tilts his head to the side and squints, “besides being so relieved and happy, I remember feeling sorry that they’d shaved her head. She’d had such beautiful hair.”

Peter stops eating but doesn’t say anything. Mostly he stares at Erik.

Erik rubs his forehead. “I’m sorry. That just came to me. I didn’t remember that about that day until just now.”

“Don't… Thanks for sharing that with me.” Peter shakes his head, silver hair dangling.

Erik nods, then cracks a smile. “Actually, I think it was your… interesting hair that reminded me. Not that it’s similar to hers, but it sparked something.”

Peter raises his eyebrows. “I never thought this mop might be good for anything. Other than looking cool, of course,” he jokes, giving it a toss.

Erik gives him a proper laugh, and Peter joins him, more out of relief than anything.

“You do have her eye color, though. Strangely enough,” Erik says as he turns back to his food.

Peter feels his expression grow serious. “Really?”

Erik nods, mouth full of pancake.

Even though his appetite has completely left him, Peter turns back to his plate and takes a few bites to seem normal; to seem like that comment hadn’t found a pressure point on his heart and stabbed a needle right through it.

A few bites later, Erik gets up. “I’ll pay.”

“Oh,” Peter says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Well, thanks, Erik.” He catches his breath, realizing he’d just called Magneto by his first name.

“Yeah, no problem,” he says, hardly reacting. Peter hides his too-wide smile by rubbing his nose and turning back to the table.

As soon as Erik is gone, Peter lowers his goggles and dashes outside. Through the window, he watches Erik pay the cashier and chuckle when he returns to the table to find it empty.

“I’m your son,” Peter whispers, fogging up the glass.

He turns to leave, the concrete scraping under the heel of his sneaker. Soon, that problem is far behind him, and as he runs from it, the streetlights flit above him and the wind pounds on his face.


	4. Look at this graph

**Four**

Peter tries not to make a habit of wandering the halls at night. There are plenty of students with sensitive ears or telepathy that would be disturbed by his roaming, so when the mood hits and sleep won't come, he makes an effort for their sake to keep himself contained. Besides, it isn’t like the problem struck _often_. Peter's mutation requires a bit more exertion than others, and usually sleep comes easy as a result. Sleepless nights really only occur when he has stuff on his mind, and if it just so happens that half of those nights are ones when Erik is staying over, then that’s just a coincidence.

Of course, Peter _trying_ to not wander the halls and Peter _succeeding_ in not wandering the halls are two entirely different things. He tiptoes, for the record—he doesn’t actually _run_ , no matter what Kurt and Ororo claim about him being unable to slow down. Not that he'd ever clue them in on his night escapades. They're up in his business enough about Erik, so Peter is growing more and more inclined to keep his secrets to himself.

Even Mr. Pacifist Xavier is taking sides on the Erik thing. There are no more discreet warnings along the lines of "could someone go pick up coffee for Erik's breakfast tomorrow?" Now, the second Peter walks into the room, Charles just pauses the conversation and says, "Erik's coming tonight," along with a loaded _look_ that makes Peter feel like he's been asked multiple times to wash the dishes and has neglected his duties.

Why do they care so much anyways? It’s _his_ business. No business has ever been more _his_ than this business. And if he wants to wait a week before he tells Erik, or a month, or a year, or forever, then they’ll have to deal.

Peter pops in his earbuds as he roams, tapping impatiently against his player as he waits for the track to play and drown out his thoughts. Did they ever think that _maybe_ if they had just left him alone, he would've told Erik by now? Why are they so determined to-

_I never meant to be so bad to you_   
_One thing I said that I would never do  
A look from you and I would fall from grace-_

Peter grimaces and yanks out his earbuds with a disappointed shake of his head. For once, Asia does not fit the moment. He wants to listen to something angry or gloomy to match his mood, not some cheesy romance song that makes him want to claw off his own-

He slows to a stop when he sees a picture frame swaying on the wall and a small figurine topple over on the tabletop under it. His first nonsensical thought is _oh, I must be more pissed than I realized to trigger a secondary mutation. Telekinesis. Sweet_.

It makes a lot more sense a second later when he realizes that the frame and the figurine are both metal.

He instinctively looks to the door at the end of the hallway. It's barely ajar, but now that he cares to notice he can see the faint glow from the lamp inside. He's a hundred percent sure that this is Erik's room and he's about to dash off until his ears decide to play a prank on him because he swears he just heard a _sob_.

Peter gives the hallway a brief once-over to assure himself that none of the other doors are open. _And now you're hearing things. Go to sleep, Peter_. He firmly shakes his head and begins to back away from the door when the sob comes again. He freezes in his tracks and rocks indecisively from foot to foot. Before his brain can figure out what he should do, his legs take initiative and start to walk him to the door. He stops just outside, pressing his back against the wall and leaning forward to peer through the crack.

There's an Erik-shaped figure on the ground next to the bed with his legs crossed, his back hunched and his shoulders shaking. He's sitting in front of an open suitcase and looking down at something in his lap when he makes a noise that Peter can only describe as a wet sniffle. The metal bed frame is warping like it's a liquid and the lampshade is shuddering. Peter's brain quickly comes to a decision and is yelling at him to get out of there but the message doesn't quite reach his feet. He wavers, accidentally bumping the player at his waist against the wall.

The first chords of _Should I Stay or Should I Go_ start coming from the earbuds around his neck—thank Jesus they're quiet—and he can barely stop himself from jumping. He knows he’d wished for a more mood-fitting song, but this is a bit on the nose. He fumbles with the player to turn it off, and he's _sure_ he's silent in doing so, but when he looks back into the room all of the metal had stilled.

"Lurking is unbecoming."

Peter's stomach does a flip at Erik's cold, completely flat voice. He's gone rigid where he sits, still facing away from Peter in a way that's somehow far more _I see you_ than if he had turned around. Peter gulps and nudges the door open, hesitantly stepping inside. Erik still doesn't turn. Peter opens his mouth, floundering for something to say but for once at a loss for words.

"Entertaining, is it?" Erik challenges in a near whisper. "Seeing me like this?"

"No!" Peter quickly denies. _The opposite, actually._ "No. I just- I usually try to be sad in a more comfortable position. You've got a perfectly fine bed right there, probably easier to cry on than the hardwood floor."

He has absolutely no idea if that had been a suicidal thing to say because Erik's giving him no clues. He's just sitting there, staring at his lap without saying a word. Peter shifts his weight from foot to foot and bites his lip. Curiosity and the need to _do something_ overtakes him, so he approaches Erik's side to look over his shoulder at what he's holding. He walks slowly as if nearing a wild animal and watching for any indication that it might bite.

Erik's clutching a small, worn photograph no bigger than his palm between his fingers. A couple of droplets of water obscure the picture for a moment, so Peter has to squint to make it out completely. It's a woman with a girl sitting in her lap, both giving the camera a radiant smile. Their matching long, dark hair and bangs tell Peter that they're mother and daughter, and the fact that Erik is crying over their picture tells him… _oh_.

Peter half-wonders what he thinks he's doing or trying to accomplish when he lowers himself on the floor a good foot away from Erik and mirrors his cross-legged position. He can only see one side of Erik's face, and one side of Erik's face has an eye bloodshot from crying and eyelashes clumped together from tears. Peter already knows the answer to the question but he asks anyway. "Are they your…?"

"They were," Erik confirms softly.

"Can I see them?"

Peter regrets the question the second it’s across his lips because he just asked to touch one of the last reminders of Erik's wife and child— _what the hell are you thinking?_ He takes a breath to backtrack but his words die on his tongue when Erik passes him the photograph with slightly trembling hands.

Peter accepts the photo like it's the most fragile thing in the world. He holds it flat in his palm, staring blankly at the woman who used to be his step-mother and his— _oh God_ —his half-sister. This little girl is his half-sister. _Was_ his half-sister. Couldn't be older than eight, and she's his half-sister, and she's _dead_. Peter works his jaw and swallows. "They, uh- what were they like?"

He doesn't really expect an answer, but at least one side of Erik's lips curve up in a smile and his eye gets a faraway look. "They were… they were good," Erik says. He wets his lips and takes a deep breath. "It probably wasn't wise of me to tell Magda who I was the day we met, but I- I knew what we had was pure. And Nina, she-" Erik makes a choking noise at this and he cups his hands over his nose and mouth, sniffing as he ran them down his face.

A part of Peter wants to bring his hand to Erik's shoulder but an even greater part of him doesn't dare to move.

"I never thought I was cut out to be a father," Erik admits with a tiny shake of his head and Peter feels his breath catch in his throat. "I always thought I'd be too busy or too… _unstable_ to raise a child. But when Magda got pregnant, I- it didn't matter. I wanted the kid to be a mutant, obviously. I wanted to be there when their powers first emerged, to guide them and teach them how to use it the _right_ way. For a while, I couldn't imagine having a human child. But when I first saw Nina in her mother's arms, I didn't care _what_ she was. Human, mutant… I didn't care. She was _mine_. And she was beautiful."

Erik closes his eyes and huffs, and Peter's gaze drifts back to the photograph in his hands. And then he notices… Nina's eyes are dark. A brown, and he bets they would look black if it hadn't been for the sunlight.

"Her name would've been Peter if she had been a boy," Erik says with a tiny grin. "I've always wanted to name my son Peter. It means 'stone.' Something stable, hard to break."

That sucks for Erik because something inside Peter breaks just then. "What does Nina mean?" he whispers.

Erik chuckles. "No idea, Magda chose it." He leans over, looking down at the photograph Peter holds. "She doesn't look like me, does she?" he notes. "She took after her mother. Probably for the best. I swear, the only thing she got from my side was her eyes."

“Your mother’s eyes?” Peter prods. He knows they are. They’re his eyes, too.

Finally, Erik turns to look at him and gives him a tiny nod. His expression's hard to read, but this time it's due to the sheer amount of emotions in his face than any effort to hide them. Erik's eyes meet his, and they narrow ever so slightly. They flicker as he searches Peter's gaze as if he's seeing him for the first time. Or maybe like he's seeing someone else. _'I'm your son.' C'mon Peter, three words, you can do it._

He takes a breath.

"I never thought I could have a family," Erik says before Peter can speak. "I thought that path wasn't mine to take. And how right I was," he grits out the words with an almost startling bitterness. "The universe has made it apparent that I am meant to be alone."

"You're not alone," Peter says immediately.

Erik scoffs. "Oh?"

Peter twiddles his thumbs in his lap. "I'm- The- The X-Men. We're- you know. One big mutant family."

Erik doesn't respond at first. "I'm glad you feel that way," he says, which is the same as saying _that's not the same and you know it_. "That this place gives you and other mutants a sense of belonging—that's good. I was going to take Nina here, one day. She would've loved it. I would talk about this place when I tucked her in. Her eyes would get all big and she would get all excited, and she wouldn't go to sleep until I sang her the lullaby that my parents sang to me."

Peter raises his head. "How did it go?"

And just like that, the spell is broken. Erik's brow furrows and he leans back. "Do you expect me to _sing to you?_ "

"I- uh-" Peter fumbles because he definitely doesn't want to say _yes_.

"That's a song passed down through generations of my family. My parents learned it from my grandparents, and my grandparents from their parents. I sang it to my _daughter_. It's the only heirloom we have that wasn't stolen from us. I'm not going to _give_ it to you."

"Oh, y-yeah. Of course," Peter says. For some reason, the back of his eyes are burning. His vision starts to go blurry so he wipes the water out of his eyes before Erik can see.

He drops the photo back into Erik's lap and abruptly stands. He makes a show of stretching out his legs from sitting and clears his throat to push back the lump that's rising in it.

"Sorry for lurking and barging in," Peter says curtly, deliberately facing the door and away from Erik. "I just- I'll get out of your hair."

He hears Erik shift to a standing position behind him. "Peter-"

Peter's gone before he can finish. He's back in his own bedroom in less than a second, disregarding his earlier efforts at stealth. He walks to the edge of the bed and collapses on top of the comforter, burying his face in the pillow.


	5. how do you know what’s good for me? THAT’S MY OPINIOON

**Five**

“In what real-life scenario would we ever fight Sentinels _on ice?_ ”

It’s as if Peter’s the only one who could see the utter _ridiculousness_ of the activity. For starters, Sentinels could fly right over the sheet of ice that Ororo made to coat the Danger Room floor. And while he bought the possibility of the government utilizing Sentinels against them even though the program is _officially_ shut down, he doubts he’d ever end up going against them on an ice rink or frozen river.

“It was just part of the program,” Ororo says with a shrug. Kurt appears in a puff of blue and black smoke by his side, nodding vigorously in support.

“No one believed Noah when he predicted the flood, and look what happened,” he points out as if the two scenarios were anything alike.

“It’s impossible for me to get my footing on this stuff,” Peter grumbles, scuffing his foot against the ice for emphasis. His super speed is essentially useless like this, though it does give him a newfound appreciation for friction.

“Maybe that’s a sign that you need to practice.” Ororo knocks his shoulder and his feet fumble to keep him upright. He shoots her a scathing glare in place of a reply. _She_ could fly right over the ice and Kurt didn’t need to worry about slipping when he could just teleport wherever he needed to go. He happened to be training _this specific program_ with the only two people who just didn’t get it.

The Danger Room door slides open and a gust of warmth from the hallway rushes in. Peter can see the ice near the doorway steam. Charles sits in the hall in his wheelchair, making no effort to come closer, and Peter doesn’t blame him—it’s _frigid_ in here. Charles straightens in his chair and takes a breath to speak, but is interrupted.

Scott appears out of nowhere and scoots past him into the Danger Room. He takes a glug of his Diet Coke, the white can glistening with condensation, then says, “Did I miss the training session?”

“Yes,” Peter says immediately because he does _not_ want to go back to it, _practice_ be damned.

“Now that it’s over, maybe you could squeeze in some father-son time,” says Ororo, nudging him again.

Peter carefully steps out of her reach so as to not to slip on the ice. He prepares a retort but Scott speaks instead with, “Oh, yeah, I’m going to go fishing with my dad this weekend.”

Peter silently thanks Scott for his redirecting contribution, but Ororo and Kurt exchange a short glance and Peter knows they’re not going to back down. “You should, while he’s here,” Ororo continues as if Scott didn’t speak.

“Wait, your dad’s here? How haven’t I seen him?” Scott inserts himself into the group to catch their attention, glancing between them and his feet to keep himself from slipping. His brow is knotted in confusion.

“He's invisible,” Peter deadpans. _If only._

“Tight.” Scott nods approvingly and takes another swig of Diet Coke.

Kurt leans in toward Scott. “Actually, it’s Magneto. Magneto is his dad.”

Peter resists the urge to knock Kurt over the head as he both laughs and cringes when soda spurts out of Scott’s nose and mouth. “ _What?_ ” Scott sputters. He stumbles back a couple of paces at the force of this revelation, rubbing his nose on his sleeve. “Magneto’s your _dad!?_ ”

“Do say it louder, everyone, please. Make sure the whole mansion hears,” Peter says with a grand gesture at the school above them.

Ororo says in a perfectly level, reasonable tone, “We want it to be your own decision, but you really should tell him. He has a right to know he has a son.”

Another, larger spray of cola comes from Scott’s direction. “He doesn’t _know?_ ” he chokes out.

Kurt nods along helpfully. “Yeah, Peter’s known for… ten years? And he still hasn’t told him.”

Peter suddenly wishes he and Kurt could swap powers as Ororo persists. “It’s kind of tragic, actually. Erik lives a very dangerous life, you know. He could’ve died in those ten years and he would’ve never known. You _both_ live dangerous lives.” Her gaze grows more intense. “You could die _right now_ and Erik would never know.”

“Is that a threat?” Peter laughs lightly, almost nervously.

Ororo laughs along with him, not answering.

Kurt pokes his head forward eagerly. “If you die, can I tell him?”

Peter squints at him, then throws up his hands. “You know what, _fine_. If I _die_ you can tell him.”

“What if you’re in a coma and they don’t know if you’re gonna wake up?” Scott pipes up, fully invested now.

Peter hesitates. “How sure are they? Ninety percent? Seventy percent? Twenty-five percent?”

“Fifty?” Scott shrugs and holds up his soda can as if he’s making an offer.

Peter frowns. “I’ll allow seventy-five.”

Scott gives a somewhat satisfied shrug and leans his head back to get the last few drops of his drink.

Ororo pointedly clears her throat. “You know, you should really set yourself a deadline. Deadlines always help me get things done. How about you tell Erik by the end of the week? Or the end of the month?” she adds when Peter curls his lip.

Peter laughs a definitely real laugh. “Give me another ten years and I’ll get back to you.”

“You could easily die in the next ten years,” Kurt says seriously. “Ecclesiastes 9:12.”

Ororo nods, then narrows her eyes as if she’s assessing him. “Peter, do you _want_ Erik to know?”

“Yes!” Peter says automatically, then backtracks, “No. I don’t know.” He glances at the door. “I _do_ know that I want you guys to get way the heck off my back about this.”

“I will get way the heck off your back as soon as you tell him,” says Kurt, meeting his eyes.

Peter puts a hand to his forehead. “That’s not how that…” His voice trails off when he notices Charles beyond the doorway, staring intently at Scott with his fingers at his temple. Peter turns back to Scott, whose lips are pressed together in a concentrated line. “Hey,” he says, “what’s he telling you?”

Scott’s mouth falls open. “Uhhhhhh…”

Charles’ hand falls in his lap. “We all want what’s best for you, Peter,” he says cryptically.

Peter sighs and puts his hands on his hips. “You know what? I don’t need to be here for this.”

Charles moves his wheelchair forward, positioning himself in the middle of the doorway. “You do,” he insists. Peter takes a step forward and waits for Charles to wheel out of the way, but the man doesn’t move. Peter tilts his head to the side in a silent question and Charles answers with one of his own. “Would you force an old man in a wheelchair out of your way?” he asks innocently.

Peter rolls his eyes. _Is he serious?_ “I would _gently_ push you aside-”

“ _Push_ me?” Charles raises his eyebrows, appalled.

Peter rolls his head on his neck and gives the professor a _look_. “You know, I could just run on the ceiling over you-”

Charles puts a dramatic hand to his chest. “You’re going to run me over? You would run over a disabled person?” The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Whatever, Charles,” Peter says, grinning and going to take a step forward. His foot doesn't budge and he looks down to see what the matter is. The matter is way worse than he initially thought.

“I’m surprised you didn’t notice until now,” says Ororo, crossing her arms confidently.

“My toes were already freezing cold…” he mutters absently, starting to vibrate his feet. Cracks appear in the ice covering them.

She takes a sharp breath. “Kurt, now.”

_Kurt what?_

Peter barely has time to look up before there is a sulfury cloud around his legs and blue claws have latched shackles to his ankles. Kurt has _shackles_. _Where did he get shackles?_

Peter yelps and tries to leap back once he wrenches his feet free of the ice, only to fall on his side. Scrambling to his feet, he shuffles over to Scott, still able to move fast enough to see the world in slow motion. He tilts Scott’s head down to aim his gaze at the shackle chain and cautiously lifts up his sunglasses.

Scott’s eyes are closed. Of course they are. Time to make up plan B.

Looking around, the most viable plan B seems to be getting the heck outta Dodge, so he starts penguin-walking to the door. The chain catches around his foot and he collapses, landing hard on his knees and giving Ororo enough time to blast him against the far wall with a surprise gust of wind.

“I know Erik very well, Peter,” Charles is saying. “He’d want to know if he had a son.”

Peter presses his hand to the ice and tries unsuccessfully to place his feet under him against the wind. “Nope!” he counters ingeniously.

“Erik values family more than anything. What are you so afraid of?”

Peter finds his footing and starts to waddle again. “That exact notion, and also rejection.”

Charles’ mouth forms a small ‘o.’

Peter races around the edge of the room against Ororo’s breeze and collides into a cloudy Kurt. This disorients him enough for Kurt to wrap his fingers around his arm and hold him in a tight grip. Every time he tries to take a step, Kurt teleports them so it’s a step away from the door instead of toward it.

Finally, Peter stills, panting and staring at Charles with a steely gaze that he hopes channels some of Magneto’s professional intimidation. He thinks it would probably have been effective if it hadn't been Charles he’d been aiming it at. The mutant just gives a tiny shake of his head.

“Okay, Peter. Either you tell Erik or we tell Erik. What’s it going to be?”

Peter gapes at him, waiting for any indication that Charles had been joking. “That is a violation of all of my rights!”

Charles slowly raises his fingers to his temple, a threat in itself. Peter’s eyes grow wide and he shakes his head, silently begging Charles, but it is fruitless. “Erik, can you come down to the Danger Room for a moment?”

Peter’s heart jumpstarts in his chest. _Shit shit shit shit_. “No, Erik, _don’t come down!_ Everything’s _fine!_ ”

"It's not a telephone," says Charles, taking his hand from his head and glancing at it as if to make sure.

"Don't come down here, Erik! There is _no reason_ to come down here!" Peter yells even louder. “EVERYTHING IS FINE!”

Kurt moves his claw to Peter's shoulder. "It doesn't have to be this way."

"Yeah, it could be worse. I could tell him and find out he hates me!" Peter writhes out of Kurt’s clutch.

Kurt teleports in front of him, his expression sincere. "I can't imagine anyone ever hating you, Peter."

"That may be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me," says Peter, taking a step forward, "but I still really want to get out of-"

A blast of wind sends him hurtling into the back wall and tumbling to the floor. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a pained gasp.

"Was that really necessary? I think I just broke every bone in my body. In fact, I should go see Hank immediately." Peter opens his eyes to see a very concerned Kurt crouched over him.

"You're fine," dismisses Charles dryly.

"I'm not _fine!_ Can't you guys just accept I'll tell Erik when I'm ready to tell Erik?"

"Tell me what?"

With those words, Peter suddenly becomes two hundred percent less fine. He considers for a moment pretending to be knocked out, but Erik is already standing in the room.

"That you're…" Peter starts, feeling everyone's eyes boring into him. "That I'm allergic to eggs." He sits up into a more respectable posture, resting his head on the wall.

Charles tilts his head back and closes his eyes, letting out a long breath. Ororo does the opposite, dropping her chin to her chest and shaking her head. Kurt just gives him a disappointed look that actually makes him feel _guilty_.

Peter's ears somehow burn with heat in the freezing room, but he presses on. "I would've ordered bacon that one time at the restaurant, but I didn't want to offend you. It’s also why I left early."

Erik raises an eyebrow. "You ordered before me."

"Really?" Peter chuckles nervously. "You and I remember that very differently."

"As I recall-" starts Charles, but Peter cuts him off with, "This doesn't concern you, Charles."

"Whatever the case, I wouldn't have been offended," Erik says diplomatically. "And why are there shackles on your legs?"

Peter pulls his knees to his chest. "Oh, these?" _Of course those, you dingbat._ "They're just… part of the training session."

"Can I open my eyes yet?" Scott asks, reminding everyone that he still exists.

Peter smiles sheepishly at Erik. "It's a very… special training session."

Charles shoots him a dry look and brushes his fingers against his temple. _Peter…_ His voice resounds in his head, oozing disenchantment

Peter clenches his fists at his sides and takes a deep breath. Are they serious with this? Are they _actually_ going to go there? Peter feels both impressed and more than a little betrayed. He opens his mouth to say anything except for the three words they want him to say and ends up making a floundered “uhhhh” in the back of his throat as he stares at Erik.

Peter swallows as he tries to push himself to his feet, but his limbs tremble too much to allow him to move with any grace on the ice. His teeth begin to chatter, and he isn't entirely sure it’s from the cold.

“S-so, I, uh,” he begins eloquently. He takes another deep, shuddering breath under Erik’s intense stare.

Erik's eyes narrow. “Do you need some air?” he asks, genuinely concerned.

"From these guys?" Peter says without a little difficulty. He then nods vigorously— _they’re bullying me, dad_. He tries to lift himself up against the back wall, but Erik says, "Here," and Peter feels a pull on the shackles when Erik extends his arm. His muscles tense up as he's dragged across the ice and he can't help but snicker. Once he's in the hall, the shackles fall off with a clatter. Peter stands and brushes the frost off his ass.

He shoots a victorious look over his shoulder at Charles and the mutants in the Danger Room. But instead of a room of defeated faces, he sees his own expression reflected back at him. Dread fills his stomach that is somehow both quelled and inflamed when Erik places a firm hand on his shoulder and begins to steer him down the hall.

* * *

 Peter sits next to Erik on a wooden slatted bench on the mansion grounds. It’s a pretty day; many students are taking advantage of it and lounging about in the shade. Peter envies them. As far as he knows, none of them are sitting next to their secret father and trying to weigh whether he thinks they’re a complete idiot or not.

Peter clears his throat and fiddles with a rip on his pant leg. “This was a good idea.”

Erik nods. “Nice day.”

Peter frowns. He can’t think of any more small talk and decides he has no more respect to lose, so he goes ahead and says, “So, a bit of a weird question, but I dunno who to ask that would know. Is Judaism, like, passed down from people’s parents?” Aka, _am I Jewish?_

Erik looks at him fully now, cocking his head to the side and giving him a slight frown. “That’s not- It’s not _genetic_. You have to actually _practice_ it."

“Yeah, but like, you know what I mean.” Peter cringes internally, hearing himself. He waves his hand in a vague gesture in hope to save face.

Erik huffs and leans back. “I think so. Traditionally, if your mother is Jewish, so are you.”

Peter raises his eyebrows. “Oh. Cool.”

Erik turns to face him, but Peter glances over with just his eyes. “Can I ask why you want to know?”

Peter swallows. “My dad—he could have been Jewish. I don’t really know, I never met him.” He looks over at Erik, who has a tight line between his eyes. “He left before I was born,” Peter explains.

Erik nods. “I’m sorry.”

For a second, Peter freezes, then Erik continues, “That must have been hard.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess. No playing catch for me, or whatever it is fathers and sons do.” He tries to shrug in a way that says it isn’t a big deal, but probably fails.

Erik smiles. “Fatherhood is about a lot more than playing catch.”

“Yeah?”

Erik inhales slowly and clasps his hands in his lap, looking up at the sky. “It’s about passing on values and beliefs to prepare our children for the future. And for children like us and with our future so…” He trails off, narrowing his eyes as he searches for the right word.

“Muddled?” Peter suggests.

Erik considers this for a moment before giving a small nod. “Sure. Point is, a game of catch isn’t all there is to preparing the next generation for the real world. It’s difficult because you know that you need to ready them for the horrors out there, but a part of you just wants to cover their eyes and ears and never let them see that side of what the world has to offer.” Erik furrows his brow for a moment and lets out chuckle that borders on the edge of cynical.

Peter stares down at the dirt by his feet. “I think Nina was lucky to have you as her dad.”

He’s not sure that Erik hears him at first from how much he had mumbled it, but he doesn’t ask him to repeat himself. Peter doesn’t dare look over, just feels the bench shift slightly underneath him.

They sit silently then, listening to the wind breathe in the trees and watching the clouds scud across the sky. For once, Peter is okay with how slow it’s all moving.

Soon, though, the moment passes, and Peter stands and stretches. “Well, that’s enough air for one day,” he says, turning to help Erik up. The mutant takes his hand without a second of hesitation.

“See you.” Peter lowers his goggles and streaks off across the lawn. A wide grin is plastered on his face, though dissatisfaction still tugs at his insides.


	6. Boogie woogie woogie

**The One Time He Does**

Peter knows what a broken leg feels like.

That, of course, is courtesy of Apocalypse. The ground had risen up and wrenched his foot out from under him, and with a swift kick, a sickening snap, and blinding pain, he couldn't have moved his foot without lightning bolts shooting up his leg. While that had beyond sucked, the worst part had been the recovery time, not the pain itself.

So when Peter wakes up to find _both_ of his shins bent at awkward angles, he lets out a groan before the pain even registers. He immediately tries to bring his hands to his legs to assess the damage, only for his arms to stop short, twist ties digging into his wrists behind his back.

After he gets over the initial bout of _holy shit that hurts_ , he directs his gaze around at the log walls. He's at the center of the room, the reddish door a ways ahead of him. It's kind of a homey place, actually. There's a quilt on the wall and the windows' thin, red curtains don't do much to keep out the sunlight, but they still look pretty swaying in the breeze. No place is a fun place to be kidnapped, though.

_Kidnapped?_ he ponders. Yeah, he'll go with kidnapped.

He takes a deep breath— _ouch,_ his throat—and shouts as loud as his lungs will allow him.

"Don't waste your breath. No one will hear you."

Peter jolts and cranes his neck around to see a man sitting in the darkest corner of the room like some kind of wannabe Bond villain. His legs are crossed and he leans back in his chair, not even bothering to look at Peter as he methodically cleans a pistol. It's a transparent gun; glass jumps to Peter's mind, but he finds plastic more likely.

When Peter opens his mouth to reply, the movement reveals a sore spot at the base of his neck and he remembers a needle being driven into it, but everything after that is dark. He's fairly certain now that this guy isn't an undercover cop, despite the badge he'd flashed after tasing Peter at that gas station.

"Impersonating an officer is illegal," he points out around a grimace.

"I'm not too worried about the legality of any of this, but thanks," Bond Villain responds, sparing him a brief glance.

"So what is it, then?" Peter asks. "Money? Do you want money? Or is it a mutant thing? It's a mutant thing, isn't it?"

To his surprise, the man shakes his head.  "I have nothing against mutants. My cousin's a mutant, actually. It's just one in particular I have a problem with."

"Who, me?" Peter squints his eyes, trying to get a better look at the man's face. He could swear he'd never seen him before.

The man puts the gun in a holster at his side and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "Your father. Magneto murdered my son with his mindless killing."

Peter short-circuits at this and stops straining his neck. He stares down at his legs and it takes him a second to come back to himself. "So I'm what, a hostage?"

"You're my means of revenge."

Peter swallows. "You _really_ think I'm his son? He doesn’t even-"

"You said so yourself." Peter can hear the man's boots clumping on the floor toward him.

"When?" Peter demands with a scoff.

"At Stryker's. You said it to Mystique," he rounds Peter's chair, but still faces the door, "and to all the scientists watching. Including me."

Peter closes his eyes for a moment, cursing his blabbermouth. "I must have been… drunk."

The man huffs and gives him a disbelieving glance. "Save it."

"Well, I've got some bad news for you." Peter presses his lips into a thin smile and clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth before continuing. "Magneto and I—we're not tight. Also, between you and me, he's a bit of a distant father, to be honest. But he'll still _probably_ kill you for this, so." Peter gives a small shrug that hopefully comes across much more nonchalant than he feels.

The man mirrors his shrug. "I'm not too worried about that either. For what it's worth, I _am_ sorry about this. You don't deserve it."

Peter rolls his eyes. "Oh, well if you're _sorry_ , then I guess it's _fine_." He twists his wrists against the zip ties, only digging them further into his skin.

The man doesn't respond to this, so Peter uses the silence to try to formulate an escape.

Running is out of the question. Any civilian help isn’t likely either if the ‘ _no one will hear you_ ’ is the truth. If Peter has to guess, he’d say that he’s in a cabin in the woods, probably at least a mile radius from any civilization. But based on the fact that this man really only wants to kill him to piss off Erik, the plastic gun, and that he hasn’t killed him yet, he’s most likely waiting for Erik’s arrival. And seeing as this man would have no way to contact Erik directly—Peter would know if there were a way—he must’ve called the X-Men to demand Erik’s presence. Which, most likely, meant Charles has been made aware of his situation, and has probably already Cerebro’d up a rescue plan. Probably. Hopefully.

Even if Charles hasn’t, Peter is still relatively in the clear. Bond Villain couldn’t revenge-kill him in front of Erik if Erik never shows up. While Peter would be massively offended if that were the case, it’s starting to feel like an ideal outcome if this guy really doesn’t have any problem with Peter himself. Maybe he would just… let Peter go?

It’s a foolish notion, but Peter clings to it. After what feels like hours, Mr. Kidnapper rounds Peter again to stand behind him.

It's not too long after that when footsteps sound on the front porch. The doorknob turns and the door swings open to reveal Erik, his hand slightly upraised. Peter’s not sure whether he should be relieved or horrified.

“I was starting to worry Xavier didn't pass along my message,” says the man, stepping forward. The barrel of his pistol enters Peter's peripheral vision and he stares up at it.

"Who are you?" Erik demands.

_Don't ask questions. Just knock him out already._

"I was a father once, but you took that from me." The gun cocks. "Now you'll feel my pain."

Fortunately, Peter _hadn’t_ explained his powers along with his parentage during his brief period in government custody. While Peter’s broken legs definitely hinder him and hurt like a bitch, they don’t turn his powers _off_. When Mr. Kidnapper pulls the trigger, Peter easily tilts his head to the side, watching the bullet slowly pass by him and bury itself in the log wall. The man looks over, eyebrows lowered, and fires again. Peter lifts his chin and lets it glide past, relishing in the fear dawning on the man’s face as he realizes that he’s screwed. He observes Erik's fist draw closer to the man's cheek and gives him a shit-eating grin.

The gun clatters to the floor and Erik shakes out his hand, glancing over at Peter. "You okay?" he asks, going in for another swing at the man's head.

"Never better," Peter chimes, then grimaces as bolts of pain shoot up from his ankles.

Erik overtakes the man, knocking him to the ground with a kick and dispatching him with a well-placed blow to the temple, the blood from his lip pouring out to stain the wood panels. Erik looks down at the unconscious human lump on the floor with his lip curling in something between rage and disgust. Erik turns to the discarded plastic gun on the ground and takes a step toward it, prompting a sharp, involuntary breath from Peter as he realizes what Erik plans to do.

For some reason, Erik freezes. He stares at the gun for a moment too long before stiffly turning back to Peter with a carefully masked expression. He wipes the sweat from his upper lip, leaving a streak of blood from his knuckles. "Who else does he have?"

Peter shrugs. "Just me."

Erik raises an eyebrow, then nods. "All right. You see us, Charles?" Erik calls to the air.

_The X-Jet is already on its way,_ rings Charles' voice in Peter's head.

Erik draws a coin from his pocket and morphs it into a sharp edge. Peter feels a tug at his wrists and the snap of the ties breaking follows. He leans forward to stand, then catches himself on the chair to keep the weight off his feet. Even tensing the muscles in his legs sets them aching.

“Oh yeah,” he says breathlessly. “He broke my legs.” He gives Erik an exaggerated shrug as if to say _what can you do?_

Without hesitation, Erik takes a knee beside Peter’s chair and picks him up with a grunt, the upper half of Peter’s body slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and Erik’s arms wrapped around his thighs.

“Oh. Okay,” is all Peter can think to say. His voice is muffled against Erik’s flannel shirt.

“Comfy?” Erik asks.

“Mmph.”

The wooden floor and stairs pass under Peter’s eyes, then he watches Erik’s boots tromp through underbrush and carefully step over logs. His feet stop when the wind starts to roar in the trees, and soon there are voices Peter recognizes as Hank and Raven’s.

“Hank’s here,” Erik murmurs as he moves forward. “Should be able to help with your legs.”

Even though Peter already knows this, it’s strangely comforting to hear it coming from Erik’s mouth.

* * *

 Peter jolts awake with a gasp, expecting to feel a bullet passing through his skull, but instead he finds a soft pillow under his head. His hair is sweaty near the scalp, but as it dries he starts to cool off. Except for his legs. He feels like he’s thigh-deep in warm mud with how clammy they are. He lifts his head to see white casts, and his brain finally makes sense of the situation, the retina burn from his nightmare finally fading away.

He expects to see Hank sitting in the chair by his bed, but instead he locks eyes with Erik. “Bad dream?” the mutant asks.

Peter tries to shrug, but he doesn’t have a wide range of motion at the moment, so he just kind of tucks in his chin. “Guess so. I was frozen in place, and when that guy pulled the trigger, he didn’t miss.” His voice is higher and shakier than he would’ve liked. Peter rubs his eyes with the (slightly trembling) hand that isn’t hooked up to any IVs. “Doesn’t matter. I’m awake now.”

“Mmm.” Erik leans back and scratches at his stubble. “You know, I’ve been trying to figure out why he kidnapped just you and not anyone else.”

“Yeah,” says Peter, drawing out the word and dropping Erik’s gaze. “Weird, huh?” He bites his lip.

“I don’t even remember the man’s son. He must have been one who was caught in the crosshairs,” says Erik, sliding a hand down the side of his face. He actually sounds regretful, and Peter can’t express how relieved he is by that.

Peter reaches over to the morphine drip and increases the dose. His legs feel fine, but maybe if he could convince Erik he’d fallen asleep he’d stop talking about sons. He closes his eyes.

“Do your legs hurt?” Erik asks.

Peter grunts, then turns it into a light snore.

“I thought you said you were awake.” Erik chuckles. “Morphine doesn’t knock you out, you know.”

Peter pops an eye open to see Erik turning down the drip. Erik catches his gaze and sits back. “Do you want me to leave?”

Peter opens his eyes fully and looks up at the ceiling, sighing. “No.”

He suddenly wishes he hadn’t diverted the conversation from the topic of sons; he wishes he’d gone ahead and told him. He remembers the barrel of the gun pointing down at him and can almost hear Kurt’s voice saying, “ _If you die, can I tell him?_ ”

It isn’t just that urgency, though, that motivates him. He hadn’t been sure of it before, but he knows now that he and Erik have _something_ , some kind of connection that Peter has never felt with anyone else. He thinks he can finally put the big label on it that he’d shied away from so many times before.

Because he feels close to Erik. He can admit that now. Sure, Erik's methods are more than a little messed up sometimes, but there's hope for us all, right? And maybe knowing he has a son will give Erik the hope he needs; maybe he won’t feel as alone.

Peter looks over at Erik and searches his face, trying unsuccessfully to read it. Apparently Erik can’t read his either because he asks, “What is it?”

A million and one excuses flood Peter’s head as a reflex, but this time, he pushes them all away. His body fights against him, and he has to force himself to take a couple slow inhales and exhales. The third one he lets out with the words, “I’m your son.”

For a good five seconds, Erik doesn’t react. He just stares at Peter with that same expressionless face that Peter wants so desperately to do _anything else_ to stop the anxiety fizzing about in his chest. For the first time, Erik looks away first and drops his gaze to his lap, working his jaw as he takes a deep breath. Peter braces himself for a _prove it_ , a _no you aren’t_ or even a _you could never be a son of mine_ , but Erik asks quietly, “Isabelle Maximoff?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, but his dry throat makes it almost inaudible so he supplements it with a single nod.

Erik looks him up and down, still wearing that infuriatingly blank and calculating expression. “How long have you known?” He could’ve said it like an accusation, but the only note in his voice is one of faint curiosity.

Peter tries another shrug. “An embarrassingly long amount of time. I didn’t know when I busted you out of the Pentagon, for what it’s worth.” He grins slightly, testing the waters.

Erik doesn’t grin back. He swallows, a flash of uncertainty crossing his face before he schools it back. Peter waits for something, _anything_ , but Erik doesn’t give him any more clues.

“Sorry,” Peter murmurs when he can’t take it anymore. _Sorry for not telling you, sorry that I’ve waited this long, sorry for getting myself kidnapped, sorry that you ended up with me._

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Erik says with some of that Magneto conviction. He straightens in his chair, yet still doesn’t meet Peter’s eyes. “You had to grow up without a father. That’s on me.”

“You didn’t know,” Peter breathes. _Right?_ he adds silently.

“That doesn’t change what happened. I should’ve been there for you, and I wasn’t,” he says with a small shake of his head. A muscle pops in Erik’s jaw as he presses his lips into a thin line.

“You were there for me today,” Peter says. “I don’t- I don’t _blame you_ for not being there for me as a kid, okay? You didn’t know I existed. Besides, you were plenty busy with—you know—Nazi-hunting and stuff.”

Erik stiffens at that. “If I had known, I would’ve-”

“Can we please move on? Water under the bridge, okay?” Peter rolls his head back into the pillow.

Erik’s eyes shoot over, but when he sees Peter’s grin, he catches it and lets out a relieved laugh. He puts a hand to his forehead. “It all makes sense now, doesn’t it?”

Peter smiles wider. “What does?”

Erik regains his dignified composure, but not the small smile. “The way you’re always acting around me.”

“Oh.” Peter huffs through his nose. “But you just chalk it up to a touch of social ineptitude, right?”

Erik shakes his head. “Mm… Right, a touch.”

“Hey! At least I know who I get it from.”

Erik lightly hits Peter’s shoulder as he falls back in his chair, growing stoic again. Peter rolls his eyes up at the ceiling, but allows the silence to sink in.

“When’s your birthday?”

The question takes Peter off guard, and he has to pause to process it. “March 14th,” he says. Erik gives a tiny frown and he looks upward to the left as if- Peter curls his lip, hoping he’s not doing the math. “You’re invited to my next party, if you want to come,” he says quickly before Erik can ask anything else.

“I do owe you a few of those,” Erik ponders with a nod.

Peter yawns widely, then forces his eyes to stay open as if there isn’t a weight dragging at his eyelids. “Mmph. You sure morphine doesn’t knock you out?”

Erik smiles slightly. “You can try to get some rest if you feel like it.”

“I just might,” Peter says over another yawn. He allows his eyes to drift close, but cracks open one enough to look at Erik and give him a small grin. “Night, dad.”

He thinks he sees Erik smile back before his vision goes blurry. He turns his head to the side and nuzzles his cheek into the pillow, letting out a long sigh. The chair creaks as Erik moves to stand, and Peter’s heart sinks in a rush of disappointment before a sudden weight makes the end of his bed dip.

Peter considers opening his eyes to confirm, but the effort required to do so is too daunting. He lets himself grow lax under the warm blankets, all traces of the nightmare officially chased from his mind. _This is nice,_  he thinks blearily as sleep creeps along the edges of his mind. He starts dreaming a lot quicker than he’d expected, and he can almost swear he hears a voice singing.

“ _O_ _dpocznij moje dziecko,_ ” it starts.

For a second his brain tries to decipher it in English, but quickly gives up, simply allowing it to carry him off further into unconsciousness.

“ _D zień się skończył_  
_Słońce zaświeci_  
_Gdy przyjdzie poranek_  
_Ale teraz jest ciemno i świat jest spokojny  
Więc daj odpocząć oczom swym i zaśnij._”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> English translation:  
> Rest my child  
> The day is over  
> The sun will shine  
> When the morning comes  
> But now it’s dark and the world is calm  
> So let your eyes rest and fall asleep.
> 
> Happy Father’s Day! If you haven’t yet, I hope this fic inspires you to finally tell your global terrorist mutant father that you're his child.


End file.
